These Plot Bunnies Who Bite
by TapTapAlways
Summary: A drabble and shorts collection for all those LotR-related plot bunnies who just won't leave you alone and insist to bite your feet. All stories are complete. More come when more plot bunnies turn up. All set in or compatible with my "What If" universe.
1. Introduction

Erestor sat by his desk, pretending like he wasn't smiling. A four year old human named Estel was currently playing cheerfully in the corridor outside. Normally the advisor would go out and look in on the fosterson of his lord, just to be certain, but this time someone quite capable clearly already was. The reborn warrior made more noise than the boy did.

With this thought, the serene elf had to cough to hide his laughter. All was well in the last homely house, and all were happy. At least for a few minutes, until Elrond would come to drag a screaming boy off to bathe, assisted by Glorfindel. The advisor coughed again.

_So this is a small collection of drabbles and shorts, just little ideas and thoughts, nothing long. Mostly unrelated to the "_What if" _arc I am otherwise writing, with a few notable exceptions, but all set in that verse (at least half could be set in exactly whatever verse, actually). Expect mostly some fluff, some nonsense and some humour. They're of varying length, but all of them longer than this first one, some quite considerably so. I own nothing except my ideas and mean no copyright violations. This is for entertainment only and no money is made on the series!_

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	2. Drabble in Edoras

Eothain brought a lantern. He carried it more carefully than he would normally do, as he was well aware that flames and stables were an exceedingly bad match. He found his friend exactly where he thought that he would find him, in Firefot's box.

The young king of the riddermark was going over his stallion's legs for blemishes, thankfully finding none, when he heard a movement from behind. He did not need to look to know that it was one of his riders, the behaviour of the horses told him as much already.

Eothain leaned aginst the stall, noting "he barely looks tired, even after that ride today. You, however, do". "Nay" Eomer continued his work without looking up, the horse nickering softly at the visitor "it is all this paperwork. I would set as a condition for my sisters marriage that she and Faramir live here and help, but I suspect Aragorn would kill me if I did". He looks up, finally, putting the last leg down and patting Firefot's neck before leaving the stall.

"Yes, he would" Aragorn looks up from Roheryn's saddle, that he has just settled outside the box next to Eomer's. Eothain chuckles. "A sorry sight you both are, two kings hiding out in the stables on the night of a feast! And I have heard of brides and grooms having cold feet, but not their brothers!" Before Eomer can reply, or hit him, more likely, Aragorn notes "I would say that is by far more common, but I think you will find those who say it live far shorter lives than those merely messing with the grooms".

"Quite right" Eomer agrees, whiping his hands and shaking his head "We couldn't be blamed though, we both get headhunted by these gondorian noblemen, and their daughters!" "And their daughters" Aragorn agrees, shaking his head and following the two younger men for a quiet pint somewhere far from Gondorian women, and their fathers. They take all the lanterns with them as they go.

_This story can be read as a companion piece to my other Story "What if, She wasn't there", but there is no need to read that arc to understand this tripple drabble._

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	3. In Imladris

He studied the flowers, the nature. The rose garden was his favourite. He stod there every morning, watching the gardens change from spring into full bloom, and summer, from summer to early autumn. He watched the leaves fall and the snow grow deep, only to melt months later to give room for snowdrops, and then the circle renewed, again and again.

He listened to the birdsong and the steady roar of the waterfalls of the Bruinen, he listened as Lindir played the harp on the balconies in the spring sundowns and to the same sound through open windows just about eyery morning throughout the year. He watched. And he listened. And he tried not to remember.

And finally, one spring evening, as he watched the garden go to sleep, he saw it unveiled for the first time, as no longer was its beauty obscured in his mind's eye by smoke. Glorfindel of Gondolin, now of Imladris, was at peace.

_This is my take on Glorfindel, and how it must be for him, literally going through death and back._

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	4. Healing the Future

Elrond looked at the little boy sitting on the bed in front of him cradling a broken wrist, trying to be soothing and not to let his amusement show. He had been deeply worried when he first heard of his dear, ever so curious forsterson falling out of that tree, but now he could only feel an amused pride at the child, not more than eight, who was trying to be so brave in the face of the pain, a pain that was now quickly fading from the sleep potion he had been quickly given in order to sleep through the bone being set. Elrond certainly had no wish to inflict that situation on a child. Gently, he caught the boy-child as he suddenly fell over, stubbornly having resisted its effects until he fell asleep like a a blown out candle. The healer elf lord gently put the son of his heart down, and went on to set the bone.

_I hope you enjoy this mini update!_

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	5. And if She Wasn't There?

Aragorn bent slightly, as he had gotten quite tall since he used to play in these woods, to get underneath a low hanging branch. He felt dazed and dazzled, carrying the ring of Barahir on his hand. He could vaguely remember the feeling of it from his father's hand, one of the very rare memories he could only just recall of his father.

He sang of Beren and Luthien as he walked, harmonizing with the birds, as they were his only company. It was peaceful, and he felt peace there, calm, and very keenly he too felt the value in the simple and the beautiful. He did not speak, as there was no one to speak to, but he came away with new resolve.

He, as the last heir of the old kings of Numenor, would protect the innocent, safeguard the beautiful, and he decided, raising his chin in solemn wow with himself, live up to his name. He would bring hope back into arda, at the last.

_So this is a reference to not only where Aragorn and Arwen first meet under the birches in Rivendell, but also to my longer story "What if, She Wasn't There" as this tells us the familiar story of a young Aragorn walking in the woods after learning his true name, only this time, Arwen isn't there._

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	6. The Young Warrior

_So, I had this review, from a guest - it is always a Guest, isn't it? - "Another author who twists canons into little Mary Sues of fluff. You write short because you have ADD or because you can't think that well. Oh wait it's becuase you just want short and fast appreciation from people and without effort. Don't quit your real job dude!"_

_So, not only is this "fluffy little twist" a background fic for a story that will likely be well over 100 k by the time I finish, but I write these short little fluffs because - my proper job is actually writing real books so the absence of a long plot is really liberating to me. And no, I have no plans of quitting it. Then add that there are no mary sues even near it, and and I must admit I laughed to the point of tears. I don't think this troll should quit his/her real job either. Never mind - I have fluff to post! Actually, I don't, this is rather dramatic and probably deserves a warning for violence, but I am sure there'll be something fluffy _eventually_._

_Warnings: violence. And fluff. Big, big warnings for the fluff. Beware of the stuff!_

Estel felt himself fading. He had gone on a simple hunting jaunt, so easy and safe he had went alone, but there had been a group of over a dozen orcs roaming these usually peaceful forests, and despite him being really rather superior to them, his lack of watchfulness had done what they could not, on their own, do. He had told himself he would learn from this mistake and never repeat it, but he knew now he would not live to learn anything from this experience. He was not ready to die.

Suddenly, so sudden he had not time to turn to even see what he could now feel, there was another presence, an elf he concluded, fighting back to back with him. He was skillful enough already, though the elves called him a youth, to feel their strength from the mere glimpses he could feel of their back againt his.

In another minute, as their enemies breathed their last and died, he knew. And then he, too, lost conciousness.

* * *

Glorfindel of Imladris looked down tenderly on the unconcious child. He knew the man-child was no longer to be considered such, as he was quick to grow, but he himself would always see the four-year-old child who did not fear tossing snow onto the sceneshal of Imladris when, or perhaps because, grown elves did not dare.

He had felt his heart almost stop, coming into the glade and seeing the sixteen-year-old fight valiantly against eight orcs, four or more orc corpses already littering the ground, but he had not paused a heartbeat, immediately joining him in battle instead.

Now, that battle over, he knelt beside the boy, neverminding that he should no longer think of him thus, and checked him over for injuries. He found a few cuts and plenty of bruises, and a ankle that had twisted as he finally fell, exhausted, after the battle had already been won. Glorfindel then dared to lift him up, going to join the rest of the patrol sent out to look for him after they had learnt that, for the first time in decades, orcs had roamed lands this close to Rivendell.

He told no one just how thankful he was that he they had found the fosterson of the house in time. But he told some, if only Elrond and Erestor, just how proud he was of the young fosterling in question. He was, truly, growing up to be a son and heir of his house. And though he feared for him, Glorfindel, once of Gondolin, had new hope.

_Just a little headcannon about teenage Aragorn. Is ties in to my earlier fic "In Imladris" and the next story in this collection "The Elf and the Edain". Hope you enjoy!_

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	7. The Elf and the Edain

Glorfindel was the warrior who had fought dragons, slaughtered the servants of evil, defeated a Balrog and sent the Nazgul themselves fleeing in terror. Most younger elves, and to him, most elves were young, held him in awe, glorious and proud, a remote figure even as he moved amongst them casually as a member of Lord Elrond Peredhel's household.

This day, a midmorning in early december, the reborn warrior were building a castle in the snow with a four year old edain who had not enough sense - or perhaps just sense enough - to see his true colours.

Estel Elrondion had started to build a unshapely snowstack meant to hold a candle, but when the golden elf had joined him it had quickly become both more handsome and more grand, as he had become accustomed to when the elves joined into his games.

Estel liked the elf with the golden hair a lot. 'Indel might not tell as many stories as most of the other elves were wont to do, which in the child's eyes were somewhat of a lack, but it did not bother him. Silent or not, 'Indel was always quick to play with him, and could carry him acoss the entire homely house without tiring of it. And of course, when he _did_ tell stories they were better than anybody else's, perhaps with the exception of 'Estor and Ada.

Glorfindel ruffled the hair of the child with a smile. Like being with Erestor or Elrond, the child's company was relaxing, like Ecthelion's companionship had been of old, in the rather proper society of Gondolin. There, he and the Lord of the Silver Fountain had been equals, and thus been able to rather relax with each other. Here, society was far more relaxed, but usually not for him. He was held in awe by most, except by the former assasin or the lord of the valley. Nor indeed, by this child.

Four hours later, Glorfindel obliged the child in a strange game of hide and seek, so that he would not realise how he was being dragged inside. The former Lord of The Golden Flower could have braved the cold and snow indefinitely, certainly through until spring, but he was aware that the child could not. He made himself a mental note to make sure the boy stayed by the fires that night.

* * *

Estel was nine years old and he was no fool. He had been taking lessons in swordfighting for _years_, and he knew that Glorfindel beat even his brothers, _even_ when they fought_ together_. Nobody did that. But he did still not understand why so many seemed to be almost afraid of the warrior. Even now, when Glorfindel beckoned him closer to the fire as not to become too cold - what was it with adults and him not freezing? - people gave the golden warrior space.

Was it lonely? The boy pondered for himself after the goldenhaired elf had finished him a rare story and now stood leaning casually on the mantelpiece, evidently lost in thought, looking to the end of the room, just staring out through the snowy windows. Estel decided in that moment, never to treat the warrior, or indeed anyone, no matter whom they might be, as anything except his friends, if that was what they were.

* * *

Glorfindel was watching the edain child struggle with a bow and arrow. At eleven, he fought well with the sword, and it had happened once or twice already that one or other of the twins - always to the great amusement of the other one - had had to genuinely block a swordstroke from the boy. He was growing fast and learning even faster, no doubt.

But the bow, oh the bow. Someone had declared - of course far out of reach of young Estel's hearing - that he might be a hopeless case, but Glorfindel did not think so. No, while he doubted very much that he would ever display the sort of grace with a bow in his hands that would doubtlessly make him known as an adult with the sword, no, that was very unlikely, the older elf had seen enough throughout the years to have reason to say that could he only keep to it, Estel would make quite the secure archer within time. Not the most elegant, but he had never truly seen elegance on a battlefield anyway, only blood, death, despair and destruction, so what did it matter?

* * *

Estel was fourteen, when at last it happened. The young prince - though he did not know that he was as of yet - was told the final pieces of the story mostly by accident over dinner, and was finally able to piece together "The Lord of the Golder Flower", with a reborn Golden Warrior and, finally, with Glorfindel of Imladris, the elf who used to play catch with him in the woods in the spring and build snow keeps with him in the winter.

Glorfindel braced himself for the enevitable reaction, the large eyes, the awe and then the typical mortification at lighthearted memories, but all he got was two very serious eyes and a young boy saying, very senenely "Oh. I understand now why you do not like speak of the past much, then. It must have been terrible for you" and then the teenage human, who was in that embaressed stage of growing up, broke all his current habits and gave the reborn warrior a hug right at the dinner table. Glorfindel had never been so surprised at a reaction in all his second life.

* * *

It was very various, how Thorongil the sellsword was accepted into the midst of nobles in the hall of Merethrond at dinner, but what never changed was the soldiers easy grace. He mingled effortlessly in the throne room after the meal, as most others did. The only one that seemed lonely - though Aragorn privately knew well enough that they probably all were - was Ecthelion, sitting by himself in the Steward's chair, looking now and then at Denethor, who was, wise as he was, a very cold man, as far as Aragorn could figure. Not as cold as most thought, oh in no way, but a little too proper to be anybody's family.

Aragorn could not imagine what that was like. He did not match well with his own son himself, that much was true, but at least he had his valiant firstborn, though while she was no scholar, was always willing enough to connect with her father, if nothing else in a discussion of tactics, or in a rare moment of appreciation of elven culture. He could only imagine Ecthelion felt most lonely after his wife's death.

Thorongil, who long ago had made himself the resolution to judge the person, not their position, went and, grabbing an extra cup of mulled wine, offered it to the the elderly steward, sitting down in the staircase that led up to the anchient Throne of Kings, striking up a conversation about lore. He was gratified to see some warmth creep back into the older man's eyes, and captain Thorongil was seen many nights thereafter, sitting next to the steward in the staircase, both men smiling and laughing, talking an easy Quenya that most nobles did not understand.

* * *

It had been two days since the king's company had arrived, and it was after dinner, the company having moved into the the throne hall as was the custom during steward Ecthelion's time. The king sat not at his throne, but seemed to have already developed the habit to sit in the staircase up to it in more casual circumstances. It seemed easy to him, like a habit already formed. One of the serving girls were going that way to bring him wine, but in her nervosity at approaching the king, spilled it so that he had too pull his feet away very quickly - which he did - not to get wet.

The girl stuttered, terrified. Lord Denethor had sent people to be whipped for less, those last years, and it was all she had to go on. The king, however, merely smiled to her "No matter" he said kindly "there is no harm done".

After she had left, Glorfindel came up to him, smiling "you always did have a way to put everyone at ease". Aragorn lauged and shook his head "I hope so. I should not like my own staff to be afraid of me". Glorfindel viewed the man fondly "no, we should not like that".

* * *

_Whoa, this tale ran away with me, like, a lot! It almost made itself into a standalone story, not to mention ran in a direction I had no idea it was going to take! It probably should be posted separately but as it belongs with the others in the "What is" verse I will put it here. Which is where, by the way, Aragorn having children during his time as Thorongil comes from. And yes, in my headcanon, Erestor, is a bigtime badass. Live with it. People that are that sedate are usually still waters, in my experience. I hope you all enjoy it! I promised to post more LotR during the summer, and I have been doing my best lately to hold to this. Hopefully I will also finish the next chapter in my main story, "What if, She Wasn't There", which is generously alluded to also in this series, but it _has_ been updated. I own nothing that isn't mine and mean no copyright infringement whatsoever with this series. It is for amusement only and I make no money by it._

_I hope you have enjoyed this little spring and summer series, more will come in time, probably sometime during autumn. These little things tend to flicker into my head, so when more does I will let you know! (I would recommend following this series for those interrested as it is likely by posting here I will do that.) I have a stand alone trilogy out as well "The Queen and Her King", set a few years after the war of the ring, its companion piece "The King and His Queen", set the day Aragorn find the sapling of the White Tree, and finally "The Prince and His Parents", set with a Young Eldarion. You can find them all published amongst my stories here. Have a lovely summer, and I will get back to you with more shorts when the muse undoubtedly next decends! It always does. Until then I will focus on finishing new chapters of "What if, She Wasn't There", as it is way past time now!_

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	8. The Protectors

Glorfindel started easily, by raising his sword in the guard of the Falcon and awaiting the first move of his less experienced, but very formidable opponent. Arandura, too experienced to fall for the trick, waited as well, reading him, until they both attacked the very same moment, their swords clashing with enough force to send sparks flying.

They spun around gracefully, Arandura seemingly just as light on her feet as her elven opponant, their swords meeting with brutal force yet again, and again, and again as they moved together in what looked like a coordinated, if lethal, dance.

It had been some minutes, when Arandura found herself falling, rolling away from her opponant with practised ease and almost elegantly getting back at her feet in the sand with practised ease. Two more stokes, and she almost pierced his guard, before Glorfindel finally struck her sword away and pointed his at her throat, eliciting a gasp from eight year old Estel, who was watching from twenty paces away with his elven brothers.

"Do you yield?" Asked the elven warrior melodically. The Dunedain lordesse smiled and answered almost gently "of course, my lord".

_So this popped into my head earlier today for no particular reason, and the plot bunny seemed very much the kind which would nibble at my toes if it was ignored, so here it is. Aradura is a OC from my "What If" AU story._


	9. Of Kings and Courtship

The great Hall of Merethrond was beautiful, and so was the princess who played hostess for the king. Speculation had flown wide as the king had returned from Rohan and his tour of his lands with her, but the fact that she, and the small boys (not hers, apparently) she had with her were relatives of some kind had spread from the citadel within a day, and reassured all that the princess from Arnor was not a prospective Queen. At least, not in Gondor. The Rohirric king had been quite taken with her, other sourses claimed.

Aragorn sat on his throne, accompanied at his high altitude only by Elendil, his great grey wolfhound, looking down at the party taking place mostly in the next room, but spilled over into this chamber quite liberally. Normally, he would be down there, taking part, speaking to people, being a human being, but for now, he had retired here, simply because while he was in full view, he couldn't well be followed up here, except by the hound, whose company he truly didn't mind, or chatted to.

Aragorn held back a sigh. The Gondorians and their matchmaking was starting to really get on his nerves. Eomer had gratefully stayed in his own kingdom, where the matchmaking, while absolutely happening, was not only less pronounced, but also was less concerned with personal advantages and more so with the rohirrim wanting princes and princesses once more. Eomer didn't mind that nor blame them, and Aragorn was well aware he was merely focusing his efforts on his country and pondering his options. The older man strongly suspected the young king would marry the next summer.

The Gondorians, however, were not so practical. Every Gondorian lord who had a daughter the right age (and even a few who certainly did not!) wanted her to marry into royalty, even Imrahil, who kind of was royalty himself, tried to make the new king look towards his own daughter. Strider looked down around the room. Halbarad had returned to govern Arnor as its steward, but Arandura was here, sitting in a windowsill watching him, her eyes full of sympathy.

Arwen, the princess of Arnor, so named after her distant cousin, the daughter of Elrond, now long departed for the west to the great vexation of her two twin brothers, was mingling effortlessly, playing the perfect hostess. As the Gondorians were yet unawere of just quite how high a lineage she came from, she was not subjected to matchmaking as of yet. Aragorn hoped to see her happily promised to Eomer, before it came to that. He was confident the pair would do very well together, and Eomer was, as was most men, clearly taken by her. The new sovereign of Gondor was supremely confident that Rohan, and its new liege, would suit her far better than any Gondorian lord would.

As the dinner bell sounded, Estel made his way down from his high seat with a polite, regal smile, ignoring all the pointless flirtations from lords and ladies wishing to introduce him to their daughters, or gain advantages, or both, very thankful that he would be sitting with his daughters; Faramir and Arandura, leaving little opportunity for the lords to speak to him during the meal, which was doubtlessly going to be long. The king, who had been vailant both in battle and during long hours of waiting, merely held back a sigh, and got on with it.


	10. Like a Bird, Like a Squirrel, Like a elf

**Like a Bird, Like a Squirrel, Like a Silvan Elf**

Elrond looked on with amusement, and not a little affection, as his young fosterling climbed the large tree outside of his window. A little parental worry, too, yes, but he knew from far exceeding the normal amounts of experience that he should not act on that.

Children, painful as it might be, had to get to try their wings, like young birds, and surprisingly often they did so by acting as if they were playing at being squirrels. Or, in a few notable cases he could very well remember, spent years seemingly in the illusion that they were merely extremely heavy silvan elves. Although perhaps with grave hearing problems, as it were. Then again, who really knew what children could hear or feel?

In the case of young Estel, Elrond thought for himself, standing by his window and watching, there was also the added consideration of his mother. Ever since she had lost her husband, Gilraen had been just a little bit too overprotective of her only child, and Elrond was not about to add to the burden.

No, let the young human climb trees, play at swords with Glorfindel before he had to learn for real (after all, what was the harm? The golden elf was perfectly safe company, always in control even when the child was in his most energetic moods, and the Lord happened to know that the warrior very much enjoyed the games, so it really was a perfect arrangement for everybody) and build mud fortresses in the woods with the twins.

He would carry a heavy burden of responsibility soon enough. No, thought the half-elven lord, smiling as he saw one of his twin sons join the game. Let the child play now, when there was time. Let him truly know the value of the type of life he would come to spend his life trying to protect.

_So, this little story got more pensive than I had first thought it would be, but that's rather the danger of letting the plotbunnies loose, now isn't it? There will be one more story this year, and then I expect the plotbunnies to snooze until spring. But then again - you can never tell with those things. Sneeky little buggers, plotbunnies. And surprisingly painful, if they try to eat your toes._

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	11. Try As I May

_Well, this story did not end up at all as I thought it would, as usual, but... plot bunnies. They run down rabbit holes, after all, it is what they do. I hope you will all enjoy this, and please review - it feeds the cranky muses._

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**Try As I May**

Glorfindel had used to be very social, back in Gondolin. Glorfindel and Ecthelion - the lords of the Golden Flower and of the Silver Fountain, always in the middle of the action, any action, on the battlefield as well as in court, always on the move, always ready to laugh as well as fight. Erestor knew this full well, more well, even, than most did. But he had a very hard time believing a single word of it.

He wasn't always the most out and about, lighthearted elf, that was very true, but his social willingness could quite effortlessly run laps around that of Glorfindel - Erestor had never ever met an elf even half as withdrawn - and with some of the company he had been keeping through the years, that was saying something.

Not that he blamed him, oh, no. Having been killed in battle could obviously do that to you, and adding the not very subtle hero-worship of many of the residents of the Last Homely House, he could understand it more than well. Still, withdrawing like that could simply not be healthy. It just couldn't be.

Thus, the dark-haired ex-assassin (well, mostly, anyway, it was a thing of the past) does his best to pull the beautiful, strong, kind and giving warriorlord out of his shell, trying to tempt him to interact, with warying degrees of success.

The first century, he is met with kind politeness, but not much more. Very much self-control, oh yes, and elegantly executed, but not much pleasure at being brought into even the slightest context of socialicing.

As time passes, the Golden Warrior slowly opens up, at least in the more private settings Erestor tries regularly. A glass of wine with himself or Elrond, or a quiet discussion on subjects such as literature, history - never concerning Gondolin - or politics in the Lord's private library starts to get accepted with genuine willingess, instead of mere politeness, duty and well-hidden, but not lost on the two perceptive others, agony.

As time moves on relentlessly, chess also seems to have an appeal to the golden-haired Noldor, and he accepts games against Elrond and Erestor - both of them skillful players, much like himself - with what soon starts to seem like genuine enjoyment, ease, and pleasure, instead of the almost effortless courtesy of a long lost age.

Gently, the Lord and his advisor works on drawing the ancient reborn warrior out, until three centuries after his rebirth, the Golden Warrior quite happily accepts all their invitations to quiet nights spent in the library or either of their chambers, but he still seems oddly reluctant to let them into his. Still keeping just that little edge of distance from even their limited society. Nor does he ever ask himself. Or accept any more general or lively invitations with anything but a strained, dutiful smile.

Elrond does his best to help, even offering the warrior aromatic therapy and soothing massages, which he accepts if his lord puts any kind of pressure in the invitation, urging at all, but lives through silently, obediently, his lord not feeling as if he is truly getting through to him, even though he outwardly seems to benefit from them, and always seems oddly at ease for someone so withdrawn.

Then, one afternoon almost four hundred years after he is come back to them, at a time when he is widely appreciated as the leader and commander of Elrond's forces, Glorfindel comes and knocks on the door to his study unexpectedly.

"Ah, Glorfindel" Elrond invites him in, expecting some sort of report on the situation at the borders, which is really the only time Glordindel ever comes to see him, not the other way around. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes" the commander assures him, smiling politely, as ever, but somehow it is now reaching his eyes, as it would on a quiet night of chess. "That is, the borders are fine. I took a hit to my shoulder at sparring a few nights ago, and it is not healing as it ought to do by now. I was hoping, if it isn't too much of a intrusion, that you might take a look for me?" his tone and eyes clearly ask if he is aking something impudent, but Elrond smiles in happy surprise. "But of course. How long ago was it, you said?"

The Lord rises, leaving his desk and waving the warrior to follow. "Five days. I looked it over myself, as I normally do on the rare occasions I take a hit - I am usually decent at avoiding them, but you know how it is". "Ah, but no one can always anticipate every move. Especially you, who habitually spar so much, and with so many. You are not superhuman, my friend. May I?" He says kindly, smiling, adding the last two words gesturing towards the tunic of the other elf, who nods his consent wordlessly.

"Oh, this must have hurt. There is muscle damage" Elrond notes, having removed the warrior's shirt and tunic, feeling the injury over with warm, healing hands, and not a little surprise over the situation. Injury or no injury, he did not quite expect the warrior to be so willing to be treated. Then again, maybe he wasn't - it had, after all, been days and he was in a lot of pain, he had to be. Maybe, it was simply relief to be free of the pain that made him accept the healing from Elrond's hands.

Not wanting to ask, the Lord treated his patient and let him go on his way, merely asking him to return if the pain did, not bringing the incident up again, and neither did Glorfindel ever mention it again. Nor did the warrior return.

It was months, years even, later when Elrond and Erestor decided to make their next more, inviting Glorfindel to attend the evenings of song in the hall of fire, and - too late - realising their mistake as there were songs sung of Gondolin, of Ecthelion and Glorfindel's victories, even several requests for Glorfindel to tell the story himself, all of which graciously denied, whith perfect equilibrium. But Elrond, ever the healer, could feel the pain behind the perfect, friendly, polite and dutiful facade. Glorfindel did not accept any invitation to read or dine with them in over six months, instead quoting a need for him to be in the borderlands.

Erestor finds the warrior reading in the library, years after things have gone back to normal, as always sitting by himself, his eyes distant, as if he sees something else than the peaceful, beautful scene outside the large library windows.

The former assassin, now advisor, leaves again, leaving him be. Things both change and do not change as the years pass, the seasons shifting swiftly and the warrior slowly, ever so slowly as he becomes slightly more at ease. Erestor is still remembering the struggle, the isolation as he stands in another window, the one beside the desk in his study, looking out at the laughing warrior playing catch with an adorable, seven-year-old human child with messy black hair called Estel.

Perhaps, the warrior still has as long to come as the child yet does, but he has also already come further than any human, even the child destined for such greatness with whom he plays, ever will even need to fanthom, much less try to. And Erestor is already so happy to be the friend of both of them.


	12. To Serve and Protect

_Well, the plot bunnies clearly did not want to go to sleep just yet. It is like they have some sort of obsession with doing what I least of all expect at any given time. Like, for example, after dwelling on elves for the better part of a year suddenly throwing me a curveball by reappearing with an Eomer idea. Well, down the rabbit hole we go. Again. Besides, I like this one._

_Aradora, named after Arador, father of Arathorn (the second) is Aragorn's eldest daughter. Her younger twin brother dies in the war of the ring. Arandura, mentioned in an earlier chapter, is the cousin of Arador and a longtime protector of the royal family. Her name means royal servant, or "servant of the king". The names are unfortunately similar, but I assure you they are two very different women._

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Eomer was trying to think of a polite way to excuse himself, or quite possibly just any scape tactic, polite or otherwise, when Aragorn appeared, a timely saviour as ever. There was something ironic, the young king reflected a moment later, about his brother king saving him from courtiers trying to set him up with their daughters, by sending him in the arms of his own daughter.

Then again, Eomer smiled as he joined her in leaning against a set of pillars at the edge of the dance floor, Aradora Aragornion - apparently lordesses were named as if they were sons, not daughters, and with little respect for rank, to add to that - were not in the least like the pampered and rather spoilt daughters of most Gondorian lords, or prince Imrahil, for that matter.

No, the Lordesse of Arnor, and captain general of Gondor, was more like himself than any princess he had ever heard of, which was quite something when one thought of his own sister, or for that matter, the sisters of Aradora herself.

He noticed, but ignored, the captain general's smirk over the edge of her wine-cup as his eyes at this turn of thought strayed to the king of Gondor's hostess, Aradora's youngest sister. _She_, was as much a princess as the other princesses he knew were lethal. Not, necessarily, that she wasn't as lethal. Her skill at mounted archery rivalled that of his own best men, though when Legolas himself confessed to having taught her, how could she not?

"Your eyes stray" the Lordesse noted amusedly, her tone not offended or even very protective. "Yes. I am not the only one" Eomer replied with similar amusement. She followed his eyes around the hall, her eyes twinkling with mirth at what they saw. "Certainly. It has always been that way... though I dare say being the daughter of the king of Gondor, she now has plenty of other suitors as well" displeasure coloured her voice.

"Are they better or worse?" Eomer asked her. She grimaced. "As bad, I'd say. I do not approve of either the ones seeking favour or being drawn merely to her beauty" she sent Eomer a significant look. "I see how your eyes are drawn to her, Eomer, but you _know_ her. There is a difference. You admire her for her worth and her looks for her beauty. There is nothing wrong with that". "And they admire _her_ for her beauty alone, and she deserves better" he agreed. "Not to mention they would get more than they bargained for". When his fellow warrior and protector gave him a look of surprise, he elaborated.

"These Gondorian lords. They hope to wed her, the most ambitious ones, no? But even though they seek to, they have very little concept of a woman like you sister - or mine, Faramir being the likely only exception, or so he has proven again and again. Did you not note the lord who was throughly scandalised that your sister was riding astride? I know her younger sister did".

"You both would" she snorted "Rohirs. But you are right. They see merely her pretty eyes and do not realise just how competent she is". She sighed, still watching her younger halfsister move about the hall, skillfully juggling the duty of a hostess with seemingly effortlessly minging with their guests. "She is not an adornment, she is used to handling difficult tasks, to rule, in one fashion, if not a country. Though should that ever be needed, she is _quite_ the skillful diplomat". "They would realise" Eomer grimaced "and that might not be a good thing, either". "That's how unhappy marriages are made" she agreed grimly, turning to look at him. "Would _you_ court her?"

Eomer looked at her over his own cup of meed, raising an eyebrow at her direct question, not that he minded, oh no, as a matter of fact he approved. He took another drink, thinking it over, watching the lady in question, before he answered without any doubt in the world. "In a heartbeat". "So why don't you?" her question was very serious. Eomer smiled softly, the princess suddenly meeting his eyes and smiling across the room in response. "Who says I'm not?"


	13. Wrecking Havoc

_Go back to sleep, you little menaces! *Pulls toes away from Plotbunnies* This story will make more sense if you've read chapters in the "What if" story, chapters that have yet to be written, but luckily there's no real need to read them to understand this. I am working on it, honest._

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Last time the lords, several of which had sons who had gotten beaten up by her, had seen the young streetfighter she had had long streaks of dirt across both her cheeks, her knuckles and one elbow had been bloodied, and her clothes of the rather ragtag variety, her hair a mess beyond belief.

Now, she looked almost meek, dressed in a clean, white shirt of very fine linen, and dark trousers of excellent quality, her long, extremely dark hair in a tidy braid, no decorations about her person but everything very fine. Despite her, perhaps deceptive, meekness, she looked stong and decided, her lips turned in a pleasant smile as she stood there in her high leather boots, all black and white, looking rather pointedly numenorian, but of course no noble lady of Gondor would fight in the street, surely? They saw her only briefly, passing through to speak with the king, and they could see her subservient figure as she spoke with him by the throne.

The third time they saw her they had to pick their jaws off of the floors. This time, her long dark hair was still braided, but more artfully so. She was dressed as at her interview with the king, just as simply, except the pearls in her braid and her dark tunic, with the emblem of the White Three on a dark velvet background, and the single string of silver in her hair, making a diadem and proving her as royalty. Because in Arnor, royalty had fought to keep their people alive, and being a lady meant more than wearing pretty dresses.


	14. Naming a Daughter

_So, this entire chapter is a reply to the guest reviever anthi35, who asked: "lovely may i presume the woman is aradora?also as arador is elvish perhaps it is more fitting for her to be named aradoriel,aradorwen,aradoril maybe?"_

_No, it is not, in fact, Aradora, who is far too dignified to fight in the street. She uses an Anduril-like sword for such instances. I did consider using elvish grammar in making her name, but I decided finally to instead take my cue from more human aspects. Those are otherwise all excellent suggestions! I promise her siblings are more properly named!_

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Aragorn sat in his home in the angle, his mother and her mother doting together over his son, Arathorn the third, who was being fussy, leaving Aragorn all but alone with the small, silent bundle in his arms. His firstborn. His grandmother had suggested several royal names, but he felt a strong sense that it would not do. Names like Arwen, Ariel, Arweniel and the like all felt wrong to him, and she was a twin.

It had felt natural to conceed gracefully to the request that he name his son after his father, and the valar be his witness, he had many female relatives to name his daughter after, should he wish it, incuding his father's mother, but he saw a warrior in her, a leader of men. He could go for making his grandfather's name female for her, he supposed, but that, too, felt wrong to his heart.

Lordesses were since many years named like sons, called ion instead iel when they named their fathers, but then he might be wrong. Nay, he thought, giving the infant a finger to cradle in her ever so tiny hand. He had read of other cultures, where naming traditions were different, as he studied in the rivendell libraries, and he thought about it now, watching his daughter.

"What of Aradora?" he suddenly said aloud, startling his grandfather Dirhael, who had been his other grandfather's friend, and who was just entering. "A bit utlandish, isn't it?" he noted, coming to look at his great granddaughter. "You said that about about our daughter's marriage, as well" His wife argued with a smile, serene as she ever was, coming to peek over he grandson's shoulder, leaving her daughter some time alone with the boy.

"And see what an outlandish child that produced!" Her husband argued, but there was no bite in the words. Aragorn held back a smile. "That he is, but a good boy, too. I see many great things for Aradora, but no need for a more elvish name" said Gilraen's mother, and that, was that.


	15. For the Love of a Cousin

_To anthi35: I am glad you like them! You'll find more Glorfindel randomly throughout this story collection, but there's quite a lot of him in chapters seven and eleven. Who it was will be answered in a now released chapter of "What if". There's also kind of a hint in chapter twelve here._

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Halbarad sat and looked out of his window. He had gotten to leave the House of Healing that very morning, and was now under the capable care of his cousin. It would take months, or so he was told, before he would be able to leave the white city, but Aragorn - he had to get used to calling him by that name only, and no more silly nicknames, now - had promised to send word to their family as soon as possible that he was safe.

The gardens of the House of Healing were said to be amongst the most beautiful places in the city, but the ranger found himself even more so admiring the view from his new windows, overlooking the royal gardens. They were not, he had been told, as well kept as they had been during Ecthelion or Turgon's times, but judging by the amount of garderners that was merely a matter of time.

Halbarad sighed softly and closed his eyes, settling in to wait and rest, as instructed. It is not what he normally would do, but he agreed with Arandura in this instance. Better not add to Aragorn's burden at this time.


	16. Who Found Gollum

_To Guest: Oh, I can. I totally can!_

_Turns out the plotbunnies are susceptible to prodding from anybody but me. That or they're just attention seekers. Either way, here is some Gollum. You will all have met Araniel before, as she is the star of the chapter called "Wrecking Havoc" in this collection. Because apparently, the plotbunnies takes requests! Fancy that._

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"For the love of Earendil and a thousand archers!" Anoriel looked up with amuseent as her only forteen months younger sister tossed a cup, which failed to shatter into a hundred satisfying pieces and instead rebounded with a harmless thump off of the mossy ground. "I am so sick of hunting after that creature!" "Easy, Araniel" she soothed the younger woman with a soft smile, looking down on the notes she was writing for their father, the chiftain. "We will find him, if we only keep looking" the lordesse said securely, nevermind that she was just as sick and tired of this cold, long, wet treck in areas so dangerous that if he had known, their father would have commanded them to return, immediately.

"Why couldn't Ariel do this?!" Araniel snapped, but she seemed to have calmed down again. "Good question. If she has returned home since we left, she probably is" the second eldest daughter of Aragorn Arathornion replied honestly. "And she might even enjoy it". "She ever was the odd one" Araniel noted with a soft little snort.

* * *

Meanwhile... elsewhere.

Gollum sat still very near the pond. There was not much alive here, not many tasty fishes for him to eat, and so he were heading north, trying to put some distance between himself and the one his precious was ever drawn to, though something compelled also him to stay near. He barely even had time to turn his head as there was a sudden weight just next to him, from someone much too smooth and graceful to be an orc. And when a hand shot out to grab him, there was also strength. He bit down hard, just before he was snatched up, and rewarded with a curse the moment before he got shoved into a sack.

"Valar" muttered Ariel the ranger, and tied the cords around the sack tightly with elven rope. She had been searcing for far longer than she liked, and now a very tiresome treck indeed awaited her, as Gollum was meant to be delivered to the elves.

* * *

Anoriel awoke to the sound of snargling and struggling, and spotted a sack which moved on its own accord at the edge of their temporary campsite. She glanced around to spot her sister, who was supposed to be on guard, and saw her sitting by her gear, as they could not light a fire here for risk of being spotted. "What is that?" "Gollum" the younger sister replied, rolling her eyes. "Ariel came by with him just before daybreak. Apparently she can go thread the deadly flowers by the borders of Mordor itself, but she refuses to go see the elves". Anoriel rolled her eyes in turn and rose. "Well; at least we can go home!"

_I hope, Guest, that this is what you wanted!_

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	17. Things Will Change Around Here

_Thank you to all the Guest reviewers of late for all of your imput and support - it makes it so much easier to write when you get some feedback!_

_I am not certain any Gondorian would be called Geoffrey, but the darned bunnies insisted on it! Besides, I don't know any Sindarin anyway, (except Atada: grandfather) and there is no way a normal Gondorian noble would have an Quenyan name._

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The youngest son of one of the lords living permanently in Minas Tirith shuffled his feet and didn't look up. Geoffrey was used to be the brunt of a lot of teasing, even small fights, from his older brothers and their friends, but he had never meant to drag his new friend into it. And now the small fights had somehow escalated into them standing before the throne and the king himself; their fathers screaming loudly at one Another.

The lords all fell silent remarkably quickly though, when the king rose from the throne and stepped down a few steps to look at them more closely. "Tell me what happened... Margolan" the king ordered. A ranger, barely seen in the shadows but who seemed to have been there very fast, stepped up into the light and gave a very succinct account of the happenings, telling how Geoffrey and his friend had been in the royal library (Geoffrey had been very doubtful of heading there, but his new, northern friend had assured him that they could) and how the older boys had set upon them.

"They should not have been in there, it was clearly them at fault" another noble argued immediately, pointing to the two younger boys, and Geoffrey felt sick at seeing his own father agree. But the king did not seem to. "I disagree. I cannot see why their attackers would have permission to roam there, I certainly haven't allowed them to" the looked at Geoffrey now, then suddenly spoke to him, using the nickname his new friend called him by. "Geo, is it? Did you have a reason to be in my library?"

Nervous, the young Gondorian tried to find words, only to be cut off by Kitten, his friend "I invited him there. Atada". He added the last word softly, before the nobles could object either to his ability to do so or his informal address. "That's alright then" the king responded in the general confusion. "The boys" and he was not looking at Geo nor Kitten as he spoke, but the older boys "will face punishment for trespassing and attacking the crown prince. You are dismissed. Aramir, Geoffrey, you may stay and speak to me". Aragorn added, a smile in his eyes as the bewildered lords left. He never did like a bully.


	18. The Snow Prince

_So, most people reading this series rutinely is likely now aware that the plotbunnies attack me - but this time, they were all nice and peaceful, and instead of them biting my toes, _I_ was bothering_ them_, all "I am bored, _do_ something!" Of course, in _that _direction they were very nice and helpful (eyeroll) and we produced this together. Enjoy!_

_P.S. Slight spoilers for some unpublished chapter or other in "What If, She Wasn't There" if you squint. Isn't there always?_

_P.S Again. This isn't a story so much as a footnote, but these are all more or less "What If" verse gapfillers, so I hope that's not too disappointing._

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While Gondor had it's Swan Princes, decended from Numenorians just as the king on the throne (though there had for many years not been one there) and every bit the royals the title suggested, Arnor had the Snow Princes.

The Snow Princes were decended from the same people that had once inhabited Dale, and now did again, and though their hair was the deep dark of the numenorian decendants, their warm brown eyes gave the differences in their bloodlines away.

They held the last outpost in the north, before even the rangers gave in to the wild, unkempt lands, at a small keep with a few warriors and even fewer workers. At the time when the king returned to Gondor and Sauron fell, there was about forty fighting men stationed at this last outpost, to which's borders all the remnants of dark fleed in unisone, together with their commander, the current Snow Prince; an anchient-looking and thoroughly stern man acting both as blacksmith and healer and finally the chief armourer and seamstress, with her wife, who ran the kitchens.

The current Snow Prince was the youngest of four brothers, the second eldest having died in the long, dark years leading up to the war, the third in the ring war itself, and the eldest having breathed his last with the rangers holding the San Ford that fateful night in September against the ring wraiths, buying the hobbits just enough time to escape, but paying for it with their lives.

Unwed, and finding himself the last of a dying line (this was not unusual in their history, as the Snow Princes were warriors and not guarded by lordesses, like the Chieftains were, nor, indeed, of any line to be guarded) the young man, who was in reality not a prince at all, but was titled "Sir" who currently held the nickaname of Snow Prince, travelled to meet up with the King's party in Edoras, requesting help with the enemies arriving daily from Mordor and the former Mirkwood.

While he did so, he left the chief armourer and seamstress of the small keep, one of the most capable women underneath the sun, in charge, knowing that she would do at least as well as he himself was capable of. She rarely if ever left the snowy hillside where they had their home, being in love since an early age with the far north, and nothing, not even the return of the king, could make her come south.

Her commander (not that he could honestly command her to do anything) did not even try to persuade her to accompany him. Aragorn and her had always got spectacularly well along, and he was very unlikely to mind. Even if the did, their chieftain, king now, knew far better than to try and scold her. He was a wise man, after all, and he knew stubbornness when he saw it.

As much as Aragorn had had to do with Arandura, and having raised what the Snow Prince suspected would soon be two lordesses amongst his own daughters, the new king certainly knew a thing or two about strong women. The Snow Prince smiled for himself. No, if the king wanted to speak to the keeper of the keep, he was sure he'd come find her himself. She was, after all, not going anywhere.


	19. The Youngest Sister

_I... should not have unleashed them. Never poke a sleeping plot bunny._

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Arwen always knew that she was named after one of the most beautiful maidens that had even walked upon arda, while her sisters bore names of valor or were, simply enough, named after valiant chieftains or other ancestors of theirs.

Perhaps that was why she never fought her differences to her sisters, or ever questioned what her father thought of her more gentle ways. Perhaps it was the way her Ada and Atada Elrond never ever even raised an eyebrow at either the way her sisters jumped headfirst into riding, archery or swordfighting, or at how she wanted to learn embroidery and how to play the harp.

Rivendell was a good place for such a diverse group of sisters to grow up. Their much older halfsister and Glorfindel was always willing to teach them the tools of battle, prince Legolas had on his rare visits taught them all archery, something at which the three youngest had proven most adept, and there were plenty of other elves both to provide lessons in such arts as well as actual arts.

Someone was always just as delighted to teach her skills with a harp as someone else was to demonstrate the proper way of judging horseflesh to an eager young Eowyn. Maybe that was why she never questioned it, not until Eomer noted their immense differences, twenty years on. She thought of it briefly, when he did, and then smiled "yes, we are" she agreed.

"But we are very close" she continued softly, smiling at him, and she meant it. She and her sisters, all of them, even the eldest, who had because of the age difference not actually grown up with them, but had already been leading armies for years when they were small children. They were close, they were sisters, and they were always there to pool their very different abilities. It was, after all, clearly beyond question.


End file.
